


Castle

by orphan_account



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Blood, Dark, Gore, Original au, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Reader-Insert, Violence, actually it's a big part of the plot later so, i took my sweet time amirite?, minor soriel? minor soriel, oh yeah i got a plot now oh man no more flying blind, sans pov
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-28
Updated: 2018-05-11
Packaged: 2019-01-06 10:36:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12209532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Oh, all of these minutes passing, sick of feeling used,If you wanna break these walls down, you’re gonna get bruised,Now my neck is open wide, begging for a fist around it,Already choking on my pride, so there’s no use crying about it.An original AU based upon the thought process of “what would it take for sans to snap so completely he takes control of the kingdom?”





	1. Prolouge

“You’ve done _enough,_ Sans.”

Broken bloody and spitting out teeth, naturally yellowed claws curl around the static magic of a fading spear. The Captain’s voice is desperate, no longer the determined command it once was. She’s already lost this battle, and she knows it.

Dark sockets adorn a rictus grin, the smiling jester that had once been her friend now nothing more than a terrifying sight. He hasn’t taken a single blow this entire time, not since she started throwing punches, not since the king fell, not since papyrus died. Not since he started this, and certainly not since he decided to finish this.

“… there’s _plenty_ more i could do, undyne.” Dry. The skeleton’s tone is starkly dry in comparison to the humored one he usually holds, kneeled before the ex-captain. An elbow on his knee to prop his skull, the other rests lazily at his side, looking down upon her prostrate form. The hall is riddled with bones and spears, crumbling into near nothing. Dust and blood paint the walls, thicken the very air they breathe, soaked into Sans’ clothes and bones.

She can barely stand, barely prop herself up on a mangled arm, no longer baring her teeth or having the strength to keep the spear in hand from fading out of existence. “Please,” It hurts to breathe, legs twisted, a single, golden eye winking up at him. “don’t do this, Sans.”

As ever immovable – chin held in hand, blazing azure magic peers down, that façade of a smile he’d once worn like armor replaced, fortified, made into steel. Undyne couldn’t read him, she barely ever could as is, and if anything terrifies her most, it’s that.

A moment, two – the only sound her labored breaths, claws digging into the gorgeous, ruined, golden tile beneath them both.

Slowly, he speaks, hand stretching out.

“… i’ll need a captain.”

A monster has no heart, and yet her SOUL pounds as if she does, thrumming in her ears, echoing loud and heavy in her chest. Asgore is dead. Papyrus is dead. So many – _so many_ , are dead. From all angles, it’s not hard to see the fault, the blame – the justice, that must be done in turn. He doesn’t need a Captain. The Underground does.

But those dark sockets, filled with dancing cobalt flames; those bones of pale ivory, grainy to the touch from dust and slick from blood; that iconic jacket, a faded blue -- torn, dyed red and ripped at every edge; that scarf, tucked under a matted hood of faux fur, a brilliant crimson mark – all of it, every last detail, shows that this isn’t Sans. This hasn’t been Sans since the very start.

… But she’s terrified. Undyne the Undying, Captain of the Royal Guard, second to none but King Asgore, is terrified.

Painfully, she takes his hand. It’s hard to get a good grip, but he holds on, just so.

Then, Sans smiles, and for just a moment, he looks happy, genuinely so, teeth pulled into that handsome grin, both boyish and comforting. The one he wears right before the punchline. “… thank you, undyne.”

His grip becomes painful.

“but i meant someone else.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [My blog!](http://viitria.tumblr.com)   
>  [Chapter crosspost!](https://viitria.tumblr.com/post/173791976505/castle-oh-all-of-these-minutes-passing-sick-of)


	2. One

The sky bleeds a mix of soft scarlet and encroaching indigo, stretching far across the horizon, mountains jaggedly marking the border between land and open air. With every step, snow packs underfoot, the once joyous birdsong having dwindled to nothing more than the occasional low hoot of an owl.

There isn't much else beyond that -- it's cold, your arms wrapped tight around your sides any moment they aren't fending off grasping branches, keeping them from tugging at your hair, your clothes, your face. You already sport plenty marks as is; you don't need anymore. The worst part is how heavy you feel, dragging your weight in a slow march to nowhere.

You're lost.

It's the second day you've been trekking through this forest, trying to work your way back – but so far, it's been nothing but a misadventure, every direction but somehow leading you nowhere but higher. Any attempt to walk down the slope either ends with you finding yourself walking in circles or somehow at an even higher elevation than you started.

It's not only strange, it's terrifying, and you aren't sure how much longer you can keep doing this. There's provisions for maybe another day in your bag, but after that, who knows? It doesn't help that the once lush base of the mountain has turned into snow and sleet, every slow, aching breath clouding the air. You aren't dressed for this kind of weather, let alone prepared for the slowly thinning air.

It feels as if you're suffocating, slowly but surely, choking on cold air that eagerly claws its way into your lungs -- only for it to settle, much alike a parasite, and creep its way through you, working from the inside out. Every breath comes harder, with more work, your body aching, teeth chattering, the cold threatening enough as is.

You know, as much as you try and deny, that you won't make it for much longer, lost, weak and bare atop a mountain you can only seem to climb higher, no matter how hard you try. You should’ve known better; Mount Ebbot’s always been told as the Mountain of Lost Souls, both by the residents a place to never go, and by tourists as an ancient, outdated attraction.

Everyone in Ebbot Valley grows up to the tales of people missing; but beyond in practice, it wasn't something you'd think would ever happen to you or anyone you knew. And yet, here you are, making slow headway upwards.

Right now, your only hope was to keep going. Hope someone -- _anyone_ \-- was looking for you. And you couldn't stop, especially not now. Not when your fingers were unresponsive, your lips chapped an icy blue, every step with the potential to be your last.

You won't stop.

You can't stop.

You're too scared to, no matter the reason you started climbing in the first place.

 

 

You don't know how long it's been. Fingers blue from the numbing chill, the wind rocks you on this steady slope. The sun is gone along with any warmth it had promised, the only good thing the stars that smatter the sky akin to a dream, covering near every inch. Gorgeous, if only reaffirming in your terror.

Trying to follow the north star down the slope had only led you to find it took you nowhere but up, as if the sky were spinning above you - an illusion, designed to trap the unsuspecting, like a spider's web.

Maybe you're already dead.

Maybe this is Hell.

But for now? You just want to sleep, irreguardless of whatever's happening - but you can't just yet, not until you find someplace safe. Someplace from the cold and biting wind, from the death you had embarked on this mountain to find.

… You don't want to die anymore. The need to rest is too great, the fear too mounting. But you do have one hope.

The rocky terrain is littered in stubborn life and crevices, a slow incline that threatens to become more jagged the higher you go. Trying to weasel into some of the crevices has proved futile, but you still try, blood gone frosty against your skin. That doesn't mean you stop looking, nevertheless.

There - another one.

It's wider than most others, a crack along the face of the mountain, and inside it seems to stretch on - even widen further on, a tantalizing thing. Your fingers curl along the edge of the opening, cut upon sharp stone. That doesn't matter. What matters is as you slot yourself into place, grunting, ignoring the sharp pull and tear of clothes and the muted, numb protest of your body, is that you fit.

You fit and find yourself inside, and it's dark, pitch, but even bigger within than you dared to hope. A stumbling step forward - to sleep near the chilled entrance would be too much, not when there's… a warmth inside, that beckons.

It's so warm.

You don't question it, a bloody hand to the wall, and step forward.

And fall.

 

 

The air is torn from your lungs, chest compressing and squeezed, eyes wet and arms pinwheeling - you're robbed of even the right to scream, nothing but darkness flitting by. Darkness and your very own, blue-red fingers, grasping for air and yet swinging nothing at all.

There's nothing to grab.

Just the sound of your heart, choked, gasping breaths, and the whistling world going by, and you know, all that time you spent climbing, all those circles, all that space, you're falling down.

You're falling, and you're going to land.

Suddenly, the darkness ripples. Light - brilliant, prismine and white and yet clear and flecked by color like oil on water - ignites beneath you, and the world comes to life, for just a moment. It's a giant pit, the walls reflecting back in gorgeous mica, jagged and in geometrical sheets.

Something cushions your fall just long enough you can catch this, and the far, far stretching darkness above you. It's like moving through thick honey after such a long, stark fall, and yet you breathe far clearer than before.

And then, the light is above you, a solid wall, and you're falling. Again.

This time you can scream - and you do, only moments later it's cut off.

You're choking, back hitting the earth cushioned by arching, knee-high blossoms that ripple with color under the dissapearing ceiling of light. Air wheezes from you in one deft blow, and something must have broken - mustn't it?

But beyond the rough landing, you feel fine.

Just terrified, confused, and ready to sleep for a thousand years.

Above you, that cavernous darkness, looming above as if ready to swallow you whole. And yet, you can still see the outline of flowers, of drooping petals above you, reaching far, far above. There's light, somewhere.

And yet you don't move. Gasping for air, a hand clawing at your heaving chest, eyes wide and heart a drum in your ears. The world is spinning like the stars had above, a trap of ingenious design - and the darkness looms; a beast, carnivorous, starving.

It pounces, and then, there is nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoops? whoops.  
> that obligatory "you fell down the mountain" chapter  
> not sure how i feel about it, but it's a good starting point!  
> also so sorry this story died??? trust me, i've got plans!  
> also this is going to be my project to help me break through my writer's block tbh
> 
>  
> 
> [My blog!](http://viitria.tumblr.com)   
>  [Chapter crosspost!](https://viitria.tumblr.com/post/173792143915/castle-chapter-1-ao3-crosspost-first-next)


	3. Two

He hates his throne.

It’s not even his, a thing built for those of stature, of grace and nobility, of worth and the ability to lead. Not for a broken, tired creature like him, with bones that creak under the stress of a decision he made far too quickly. But does that mean he regrets it? No, not most nights.

But it’s in those few nights between that he spends here, in a garden of flowers he tends to like a promise, that he hates it, just so. His back bows, his phalanges crack, his smile slack. This is not where he belongs, and he knows it, having left that decrepit crown he stole sit on the arm of that mighty seat, wanting nothing more than to let it rot.

Or for familiar hands, large and furred, to reach and take it, settling it between curling, ivory horns.

… Wishful thinking. It’ll get him nowhere.

He's been told it fits him, but he'd damn near beg to differ.

Sans does his best to focus on other things, instead.

The watering can in his hands is a thin metal that could bend so easily under his touch, a can the late king once held, and he more watches than waters, droplets shaking from petals to the ground below. Watching, waiting - getting lost in his thoughts.

The earth is soaked, the smell reminding him of a place far on the other end of this kingdom of his. It always surprises him, the way sunlight can stretch through the barrier like a tender touch, creeping through the long hall between him and the world outside.

There are few, precious hours in which these flowers get light. Sunrise to just past noon, where the sun reaches past the peak far above and makes the rest of its trip, leaving the throne room in shadow.

And yet, they grow beautifully all the same, reaching upwards, as if they care not for the temptation. Resilient blossoms, a look alike to the poisonous buttercups that grow in swathes elsewhere.

He hates it.

Sometimes he expects to see Asgore standing there tending to the flowers beside him, picking out the snails that threaten their care, to hear his voice chiding how the jokester is overwatering his plants, but never with malice. To be fair, he can hardly recall the amount of times he's been here, cup after cup of tea.

Rumbling laughter at his jokes, a guiding paw to his shoulder blades when they sag, a gentle word to his addled mind.

Sans falters.

Would Asgore have wanted this?

Would he have approved of the way Sans had done what he thought best? Or was he no better from the grieving king, misjudged and misguided, letting his fear and anger guide him?

Did he scream the way sans had, when he lost it all?

Did he find no solace in these flowers, despite how desperately he tried?

What would he do if he were here, and not dead by his own hand?

The sound of shrieking metal stops him.

Blinking, Sans finds the metal handle of the watering can bent and being ripped under his phalanges, his teeth baring into a frustrated smile. Then, a low sigh, and he eases his grip, standing straight.

Wishful thinking.

It breaks things, monsters and others alike.

It doesn't matter if Asgore could have seen this coming or not, a broken judge turned executioner in his place, jokes robbed and left with nothing but a kingdom at his back. He’s dead, and all that remains are the pieces he left behind to be picked up one by one.

He makes for the throne and sets the watering can at the foot of such an ornate thing, phalanges trailing, hesitating. It takes a moment, two, before he finally touches that cold crown, frozen upon his skull. He has no warmth, no fur, to keep it any other way.

The jewels glisten menacingly as he picks it up, light in his hands. Bendable, breakable, just like the watering can.

It fits, but sans hates it.

He's not sure he can sleep now, but he'll never get anything done with these bags under his eyes, deepening by the day. Someone will get him a new watering can, or they won't.

He hopes they won't.

 

The next day is a harrowing affair.

He has far too many meetings he doesn't care for first thing in the morning, far too many disputes to settle, and more than enough urgent reports that turn out to be nothing more than the “kingdom crisis” equivalent of a stubbed toe.

He's really over this king thing.

It's after those slew of meetings he's offered something to eat, but more often than not he doesn't have the appetite nor focus to even keep sipping at a bottle of ketchup as he works over paper after paper just begging for his signature or approval.

And while sans is exhausted, and the once self-proclaimed lazybones everyone had once known, he does not skirt his work. Not this, not when one misread or skimmed paper drafted by his advisors would mean less food supply over power, or vice versa.

He has to be careful, and he weighs everything he's given as a judge should.

Fairly.

Most of his early afternoons are spent this way, but it's thankfully the evenings that belong more or less to himself. He's only recently gotten those pesky guards of his to stop following him, loyalists beyond all else. It’s fair to say with the death of Asgore the public had concerns, worries, and more than enough contentions to abide the matter. And while Sans is grateful for their worry of losing yet another, he’s more than capable, and yet it took a demonstration just to be sure he wouldn’t have to worry about a panic whenever he snuck off.

He can’t blame them. As far as the Underground knows, Asgore disappeared, and it’s more than widely accepted it was the human who killed him.

Sans has done nothing to help these rumors. And why should he?

It’s another day he finds himself disappearing the moment his detail’s back is turned, from one archway to the next, stepping through the world from place to place. Seamless, the transition from stone walls and stained glass lit by artificial sunlight, to a world of ice and snow.

It may not be New Home, but it’s _his_ home.

His feet crunch through the snow, and while he feels the cold against his bare tarsals, it doesn’t upset him. Sans can feel the temperature, but isn’t miffed by it, making slow headway past a sentry station that’s been re-polished and now homes a gently snoozing Doggo. Normally, Sans would say something.

But he only steps through the world again, and finds himself yards away, beyond a familiar, broken bridge.

It’s snowing as it always is. Gentle, lazy snowfall that never ceases to make him feel at ease, even if just so. It’s the place he grew up, had a family, a home. The once-prankster can’t even help the way his teeth curve, a smile on that skull of his.

It isn’t long until he sees the door.

The Delta Rune that’s become his life is stamped on the masonry, carved in as permanently as it’s stitched on his clothes. Idly, he wonders if she’ll answer. Sans also wonders if she’s dead, too, if her silence means anything.

Maybe she thinks _he’s_ dead, for all _his_ silence means anything.

And yet he can’t help himself. When he finds himself before those stone doors, he reaches out a hand, as he’s done, day by day, for weeks, months. But he doesn’t rap his knuckles, no. Instead the flat of his palm finds the stone, strangely warm in this cold, freezing world, and he sighs, a sound whittled between his smiling teeth.

Not today.

He’ll find himself laying with his back against the door soon enough, waiting. Listening.

Not a sound.

 

Eventually, he’ll have to go back. Dinner, and then another restless night pacing the halls.

It blurs together, one day after the next, and Sans has to wonder if this is any better a Hell then the one before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took some time getting this one out, but I think I've got it figured out where I wanna go!  
> Please mind I'm adding new tags with every chapter as this is still kind of me winging it, with a general guideline!  
> Also, what do you guys think of having some influence over the story? I might start putting polls at the end, just to get a general opinion, and go from there!  
> But yeah! Hope you guys are enjoying this ride so far, see you in the next chapter or on my blog!
> 
> [My blog!](http://viitria.tumblr.com)  
>  [Chapter crosspost!](https://viitria.tumblr.com/post/173792184205/castle-chapter-2-ao3-crosspost-first-last)

**Author's Note:**

> Leave a kudos & a comment if you enjoyed! Best way to keep me motivated, honestly!
> 
> Have a lovely day & remember you're gorgeous! ❤❤❤


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